Imperfect
by JeminiaMoon
Summary: They were all flawed...except for him. Oneshot, Hermione's POV.


**Author's Note: Just a random idea I came up with while thinking about the word "prattling…" Anyway, hope you like it! Please review!**

**Disclaimer: As much as I want it to be, none of it is mine. **

Harry…he was always too famous. Girls flocked to him, everyone knew his name, and I might as well have been invisible, standing next to The Boy Who Lived. His temper was constantly bubbling over, and even when I was decent enough to give him advice, do you think he listened? I don't think so. It was hard not to kill him in potions, harder still to prevent him from blowing up the room and killing us all. Somehow, he managed to ignore everything I said. He was infuriatingly, maddeningly, famously imperfect.

Lavender…somehow it was hard to hate her. Her face and hair were impeccably groomed every day, but behind a beautiful mask, there was…a girl who was simply that. An ordinary, average, teenage girl. She went to parties, celebrated the won Quidditch matches, and picked up and dumped boys daily. Of course, there was that one time in six year that…no. That's over now. Even then, she was ordinarily, beautifully, simply imperfect.

Dumbledore…yes, I know he was a genius, but life to him seemed like a joke. I worked hard to have the perfect scores, the academic achievements, the meticulously done assignments, yet the two biggest jokesters of the school remained the two students he held in his highest honors. In times of dire consequence, he always seemed to find laughter. This seemed like a virtue to some, a gift, but to me it was just under assessing the dilemma at hand. And there was always the awkward, nagging feeling that he was studying your very soul…and anyway, it is hard to pour your thoughts into a headmaster. He was brilliantly, laughably, studiedly imperfect.

Hagrid…he meant well, but he didn't always meet anyone's already lowered expectations. His cooking left a bit (or maybe more) to be desired, and no matter how much I told him that acromantulas were dangerous creatures and giants belonged in the mountains, he remained stubbornly unmoving. In classes, why couldn't he have made more of an effort to be likable? Showing us the difference between hedgehogs and knarls; not experimenting with inter-breeding magical beasts…but of course, he is Hagrid. He is the man who named a bestial, three-headed dog "Fluffy." To him, it was impossible to find interest in an ordinary lesson. He was, and still is, unfathomably, undeniably, and amazingly imperfect.

Luna…don't even get me started on her. How could anyone who hangs radishes from her ears be even remotely sane? They say first impressions are killer, and her's just about killed me…necklace of butterbeer corks, wand tucked behind her ear, magazine held upside-down… Before she even said a word, she had lived up to her "Loony" nickname. And then, once she did start talking…oh, my. Always prattling on about some Crumple-Horned Snorkack or Umgubuler Slashkilter thing—no wonder that old fraud Trewlawny loved her. Although I do have to admit that she could be quite insightful to people sometimes. She will eternally be crazily, insanely, and wonderfully imperfect, no matter how much she understands people.

My mum and dad…I love them, but they could never understand how important my magic is to me. Out in their little Muggle world, operating on some person or another's teeth, they could never comprehend the innumerable times I had thanked myself that I had turned out magical. Even now, they can't see how much I love being a witch. As my parents, I would like to say that they are perfect, but that would be a lie. Like everyone else, they are imperfectly imperfect, yet more magical than some of the wizards I know. But still, imperfect.

But Ron…Ron. That first trip on the Hogwarts Express was pivotal; and from that day on I knew who I wanted. But I waited…through our first five years we suffered through hidden chambers and notorious, innocent mass-murderers, renowned tournaments and secret organizations…and never once did I tell him how I felt about him. And never once did he tell me that he felt the exact same way. But now we are together…and Ron, no matter what his faults may be, is wonderfully, unfathomably, undeniably, brilliantly, crazily, insanely, laughably, studiedly, beautifully, magically, simply, extraordinarily, famously, maddeningly, infuriatingly perfect.

Ron turned to his wife, taking in every detail of her beautiful face. Even after all this time, she retained traces of her teenage self, how she looked the years when their friendship had blossomed and grown to more than just a fellowship. As he watched, she hastily stuffed an opened book under her covers.

"Mmmm…watcha doing, 'Mione?" he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.

"Nothing you need to worry yourself about," Hermione replied, snuggling closer into his arms. But before their lips met, Ron glanced at the quickly concealed book and read one word:

_Perfect._

He smiled, knowing that there was no other explanation for the way he felt right now.


End file.
